Locked On

With the niceties out of the way, Rehan was anxious to finish his morning meeting. “How may I be of service to you today?”

Murshidov said, “I am told by my friends in Chechnya that you are a man of God.”

Rehan smiled. “I am a humble follower.”

“My people have been dealt a painful blow with the capture of Israpil Nabiyev.”

“I have seen this. I know he was a valiant commander of your troops.” In truth, Rehan did not think much of the Dagestanis. He knew the Chechens better, had more respect for their abilities as fighters. Still, this Nabiyev fellow had impressed the Chechens. They said he was supposedly a cut above the other Dagestani fighters who’d been, by Rehan’s way of thinking, little more than cannon fodder for the Russians.

Murshidov nodded, appreciative of the kind words. “He was my great hope for the future of my people. But without him, I believe now we must look outward for assistance.”

Oh, so there is a pitch to be made today. Rehan was pleased. If this old man needed something, then maybe he wouldn’t have to sit through a tongue-lashing. “I am at your service. How can I help you?”

“The Chechens say you will soon lead Pakistan.”

Rehan’s face remained impassive, but inside him his blood began to boil. He had sworn all the attendees at his meetings to secrecy. “That is premature. Right now, the situation is difficult for—”

But the old man kept talking, almost as if he were talking to himself and did not know Rehan was in the room with him. “You have told the Chechens you will gain control of nuclear weapons, and you have offered these weapons to the Chechens. They have refused you, because they are afraid that if they possessed heyld the Chnuclear weapons they would become a nuclear target themselves.”

Rehan did not speak. The muscles in his face flexed under his trim beard. He glanced up at Khan and the other colonels in the room with him. He gave them a look that he knew would indicate to them that they would never work with those Chechen fools again if they could not keep a conversation like that to themselves.

Rehan almost stood and left the room. He was about to do just that, but Murshidov kept talking. The old man appeared to be nearly in a trance, unconcerned about the impropriety of the words that came from his mouth.

“I know that you wish to give the bombs to an organization outside of Pakistan. When you do this, when the world learns nuclear weapons have been stolen, then your weak civilian government will fall, and you will take power in a coup. My men, general, can take your bombs.”

Now Rehan forced a laugh. “I do not have any bombs. And if I did have them, I would not need your men. I respect you, old man. I respect your sacrifice and your submission to Allah, and the wisdom you have gained just by virtue of being old. But you come here to my home and say things like this?”

“We have a need for the bombs. And we are not afraid.”

Rehan stood now. Angry and tired of the old man from Russia. “What bombs? What bombs are you talking about? Yes, my country has nuclear weapons. This is common knowledge. They were designed and manufactured under the direction of A. Q. Khan, a Pakistani patriot and a good Muslim. But I am a general in the Army and a member of external intelligence. I cannot just back a truck up to a warehouse and ask the men there to load nuclear missiles into the bed of the truck. That is foolishness!”

Murshidov looked at Rehan through his cataract-clouded eyes. “Your plan has been explained to me in great detail. It is remarkable, and it can work. But you have failed in one respect. You made your offer to the wrong people. The others you invited into your scheme have refused you, and now you can do nothing. I am here to show you that Jamaat Shariat is the right path for you. We will help you, and you will help us.”

Rehan looked to Khan. Khan shrugged. What the hell.

General Rehan sat back down on the sofa. “You think you know things that are not true, old man. But you make me curious. What will you and your poor mountain men do with nuclear bombs?”

Murshidov’s glassy eyes seemed to clear suddenly. He smiled, exposing thin, brittle teeth. “I will tell you exactly what we will do with nuclear bombs.”

Ninety minutes later, Rehan rushed toward the helipad behind his house and leapt into his Eurocopter EC135. The aircraft’s rotors were already turning, their pitch increased as soon as the door was locked, and in seconds the helo lifted over the house, dipped a little as it headed out over the gulf, then banked toward the incredible skyline of Dubai.

Khan sat next to him in the back of the six-seat chopper. The colonel spoke into his headset, told his general that he had made the secure satellite connection with Islamabad, and Rehan need only speak into his microphone. “Listen to me, brother,” Rehan said, nearly frantic with excitement. “I am leaving now for Volgograd.” He listened. “Russia. Yes, Russia!”

The Eurocopter headed toward the skyscrapers of downtown Dubai. Just on the other side of these was Dubai International Airport. There, the crew of a Rockwell Sabr Rocopeliner jet was scrambling to prepare their aircraft for immediate flight.

“I will know by tomorrow, but I think we are in position to begin Operation Saker. Yes. Get everyone ready to move at a moment’s notice. I will come to Rawalpindi and brief the committee myself just as soon as I am finished.” He listened to the other man for a moment, and then said, “One more thing. Last month I met a contingent of four Chechens in Grozny. I want you to draw up a plan to eliminate these four men, quickly and quietly. One of them talks too much. I am glad he did it in this instance, but I cannot have him talking to others. I want them all out of the way to make certain that we plug this leak before all the water passes through the dam.”

Rehan nodded to his second-in-command, and Khan then disconnected the call.

“It is too much to wish for?” Rehan asked Khan.

“Allah is good, General.”

Brigadier General Riaz Rehan smiled, and he willed his helicopter to fly faster, because he had no time to waste.

If all the polls in America were correct, then Jack Ryan would be President of the United States again soon, and once Ryan was back in the White House, Operation Saker would not stand a chance.

27

Charles Sumner Alden, deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sat in the back of a Lincoln Town Car that rolled through the gates of the Newport, Rhode Island, estate of Paul Laska. The DD/CIA was dressed for dinner but hoped this evening would involve business as well as pleasure.

He’d been to Laska’s Rhode Island home on several occasions. A lovely garden wedding for a Democratic Congressman, a fund-raiser for Ed Kealty’s run against Robby Jackson, highbrow cookouts and pool parties, and a Christmas soiree a few years back. But when Laska called him and invited him for dinner tonight, the old man made it plain it was to be just the two of them.

This was a big deal, even to a political insider like Charles Sumner Alden.

Alden assumed — no, he knew—that he was going to be offered a position in one of Laska’s think tanks, contingent on the obvious: that the Kealty administration would cease to exist on January 20 of next year.

The Lincoln drove through the beautiful garden and parked in a parking circle next to the house, overlooking the water. The perimeter of the grounds was patrolled by armed security, and every inch of the property was wired with cameras, security lighting, and motion sensors. Alden’s driver and bodyguard were armed, of course, but no one expected trouble here worse than the DD/CIA potentially burning the roof of his mouth on the lobster bisque.

Alden and Laska were served drinks in the library by the staff, and then they dined on a windowed back